


One in the Hand

by Hypnosistrash



Category: Batman (Comics), Gotham (TV)
Genre: Brainwashing, Gen, Hypnotism, Medical Experimentation, Mild Gore, Monster Men, Needles, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-08 02:36:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4287522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypnosistrash/pseuds/Hypnosistrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don Maroni knows Oswald Cobblepot is a traitor, and has just the punishment for him; sending him as bait to a certain mad psychiatrist, whom Maroni has recently lent a large sum of money.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to combine Gotham canon with the original comics canon, in which Maroni lends Hugo Strange money, with which Strange develops his first Evil Scheme, his Monster Men.

Oswald Cobblepot knows he has loose ends to tie.  
A buzzing in his pocket comes from Maroni, Brooklyn-esque accent (Oswald knows from years of living with his mother when someone is putting on airs, and Maroni stinks of insincerity in a way only someone equally insincere can truly appreciate) drawling into Oswald’s ear.  
Maroni, it seems, has lent a sizeable chunk to a sketchy source, some mad scientist (they seem to be crawling out of the woodwork) with a psych degree and a vendetta against too many people to count. Gotham University, some orphanage on the East End; nowhere relevant to Oswald, though he tucks the information away for later, just in case.  
“I wantchu ta go down there,” Maroni orders, “make sure he’s spending my money properly.”  
Oswald agrees in his most simpering tones, snapping the phone shut and chewing his lip. They haven’t spoken since the incident with the rabid electrician (which, he remembers quite bitterly, was Maroni’s fault in the first place) and he knows his lie has bought him time, not trust or safety.  
It’s a trap. He knows it, can feel it in his gut and in the throbbing in his knee. Either intentionally set, or a suicide mission; Oswald is above such errands at this point, and Maroni’s vagueness sounds more deliberate than his usual stupidity.  
Oswald has three of Falcone’s men agree to stake the place out from a careful distance. If he’s gone for more than half an hour without a call, they’ll come in with more firepower than he knows is really warranted, but a flair for the dramatic never hurt anyone.  
Well, anyone he cares about. 

 

Hugo isn’t surprised when the car pulls up, conspicuous in its deliberate uniformity, and the burly man exits the driver’s side. He’s been silent too long, the specifics of his experiments too ambiguously worded. Maroni isn’t clever, but he’s crafty. Hugo knows the rumors that surround his experiments, and allows them to an extent, knowing the GCPD don’t care enough about one crackpot with test tubes to pay them any heed. Maroni is testing him, and Hugo nearly snickers as he realizes Maroni has sent one of his own as bait.  
His brows do lift slightly at the sight of his offering. The man is slight, young, with a birdlike demeanor and a distinctive limp to his shuffling gait. Hugo wonders how he commands enough respect to even appear on Maroni’s radar. He has Sanjay escort them in, putting down the sheet of notes he’d been absent-mindedly adding to as they enter his office.  
According to paperwork, the clinic he’s taken up residence in is in the process of closing down, and has been for the past 3 years. It’s remarkable what bureaucratic apathy and a relatively small amount of cash can get you. What with that recent stunt at Arkham, he now has several new test subjects nestled nicely in well-soundproofed rooms throughout the nearly-vacant facility. The office itself is vast, and sumptuously furnished, especially compared to the nearly skeletal feel of the rest of the building.  
Hugo can immediately tell by their body language they are also aware of the trap this house call so obviously is. The bodyguard carries himself with calm confidence, arms crossed ever-so-slightly-unnaturally over his chest, ready to pull out the gun tucked inside his jacket. The mobster…  
Up close Hugo can see his bizarrely untidy black hair, huge blue eyes constantly looking, analyzing. Others might be thrown by his twitchy movements and simpering grin, assuming him a coward, but Hugo can see the young man’s fingers are twitching reflexively, and he can just-so-barely see the outline of a knife in the pockets of his pressed trousers. He is fear and cunning and ambition and awareness, wrapped in a skinny, birdy package that sports a good number of not-yet-healed injuries.  
Hugo could nearly pity him. But can and will are different things, and Hugo is adept at distancing himself from his messier of emotions, particularly those relating to others.  
Instead, he offers a hand, grabbing just slightly too tight and pulling the younger man closer in the movement. He sees the flicker of imbalance and uncertainty, the dull-bright shine of fight-or-flight, before the little bird composes himself, eyes set steely and murderous, refusing intimidation even as Hugo feels his pulse thunder through his skinny fingers. Hugo has never wanted to toy with someone so badly.  
They exchange pleasantries. Introductions never matter. The little bird is Penguin, which Hugo absently finds lacking; magpies, he feels, would suit Mr. Cobblepot here much better. His henchman goes unnamed.  
The Penguin speaks with a careful amount of authority; he’s a messenger, an inspector, nothing more, though Strange can see he holds his tongue carefully, and is sure one of those bruises is from the last time he didn’t. Hugo can all but see him, strutting up to some dealer or club owner, puffed up like a real bird, and the mental image is hard not to laugh at. Instead, he answers reassuringly, keeping his voice smooth and even, an undercurrent of power and malice running just far enough beneath the surface that Cobblepot can only glare, suspicions not quite yet confirmed.  
Hugo offers a tour, and the Penguin oh-so-graciously accepts, though Hugo can see a tension in his core and a set in his shoulders, even as his red-rimmed eyes dilate ever so slightly.

 

Penguin has spent enough time with Fish Mooney to know when he’s being toyed with. There’s something off about this man, though; something in his eyes looks too much like Victor Zsasz, and Oswald tries not to think of what Zsasz would be with Fish Mooney’s cunning. The concept is terrifying, and fear will get him eaten alive.  
The hallways are empty, save for the occasional comings and goings of the young Sanjay, who can’t be more than twenty, and looks at them with intense, distrustful eyes. Oswald will have to see about him later.  
Strange leads them down, into an operating theater (they used to do cancer treatments or somesuch here) where a man is strapped to a table, gagged and writhing.  
“Oh my,” says Strange with concern so poorly faked it was nearly insulting, “he does seem to be having a bad time of it.” He unlocks the door and lets them in, sending Sanjay to fetch a syringe of something –Oswald doesn’t catch the name, but the doctor nods at the subject who thrashes on the table.  
“These new test subjects,” Strange explains, “are a bit unruly. We had a few, and then, what with that fantastic distraction at Arkham… that breakout was an opportunity we couldn’t miss.”  
“I’m glad you had such luck with it,” Oswald drawls with bitter insincerity, seeing Strange’s eyes flicker over his various cuts and bruises, lips twitching slightly before he turns away. Oswald can’t explain why he feels such hatred towards him, but he knows, somewhere deep and intrinsic and never wrong, that he needs to incapacitate Strange, and quickly. After that, he can take his time killing him.  
As Hugo turns to take Sanjay’s offered equipment, Oswald nudges Gabe, jerking his head as subtly as he can in Strange’s direction. Gabe turns, looking down at his employer questioningly; it’s a bold, and, in his mind, unprovoked attack on someone Maroni has seen enough value in to give money. Oswald glares daggers into him, and Gabe manages half a nod before crying out as a needle is jabbed deep into his fleshy neck. He flails, dragging Oswald halfway to the ground as he collapses, and now Strange is towering over them both, and Oswald didn’t expect him to be that fast, didn’t expect a psychiatrist to have the strength to lift him clean off the ground, one-handed and effortless. He’s squirming and kicking and gasping and it’s so undignified he’s nearly overwhelmed with the hate of it, but he’ll take back all the dignity he wants once he’s free and safe, and he always does find a way…  
“One in the hand,” Strange mutters, snickering to himself, dark eyes boring into Oswald’s light ones so that Oswald is nearly mesmerized with terror. Something about his face makes the edges of Strange’s lips curl up, and he drags him, kicking and screaming, past an impassive Sanjay and into a smaller, darker room.  
There’s a table here, too, and Oswald’s hand is batted aside as no more than an afterthought as he scrambles for his knife, before his wrists are strapped down, and then his ankles, knees, thick bands over his belly and shoulders. Eventually even his head is restrained, pressed down to the (surprisingly soft) surface he reclines on, so that he can’t even twist his neck.  
Strange stands above him, white coat and bald head illuminated from behind, where the door still stands ajar, his glasses occasionally glinting with reflected light. Oswald has never been more afraid of anyone in his life, but he feels, instinctively, that groveling will make his situation worse. So he thrashes and gasps and yowls, but does not plead, and eventually he settles down and glares up at the man who watches him silently, his perverse amusement cloyingly palpable.  
“Most of my subjects,” Strange says, voice cool and mocking and business-like, as if he were back at GSU, lecturing a particularly slow class, “are paranoid schizophrenics, or sufferers of particularly acute trauma-induced dissociative disorders. They are incurable, and not worth the resources their treatments would cost. This makes them ideal test subjects for various genetic experiments. It does, however, present a depressingly low number of individuals with mental states viable enough for me to try some more… cerebral… procedures on.”  
Oswald can feel the same sense of crushing panic he felt that night, locked in the trunk of a car for hours, bleeding and shaking and trying not to breathe too fast. But this time, he knows there will be no quick bullet, should things go as bad as they could. And right now, there is no Jim Gordon with his heart of gold and adorable dedication to Doing What’s Right, willing to let him off with a warning shot. All he can do now is breathe, eyes so wide with panic he can feel the muscles around them aching. If he focuses on breathing, maybe it will slow his crashing heartbeat, and he won’t let out the terrified whimpers that threaten to burst from his chest like bats.  
“No need to panic,” Strange nearly purrs, and Oswald feels something hot and bitter and sick rise painfully in his stomach. He’s never felt such an intense mix of fear and hate, never wanted to inflict as much pain on another person as he does right now. “I promise you, the test I have for you is completely painless. In fact, I’m sure you’ll find it an incredibly relaxing experience.”  
Oswald tries to tune it out, knowing he’s being mocked, being set up and poked and teased, and he can’t let Strange in his head…  
The door is shut, and the room is pitched dark. Oswald can hear Strange moving; navigating, it seems, by touch and memory alone, and then there is something, cool sculpted metal, being slipped onto his head. It feels like a visor, or sunglasses, or a mask, and though he feels it resting on his cheek bones, its weight is surprisingly negligible.  
“All you have to do,” he hears, from somewhere behind and above him, and he rolls his eyes up in an attempt to see whatever device is on his face, through to the monster who holds him here, but his head is held in place and his eyes tire of the strain. “Is listen to my voice…”  
A series of flashes suddenly burst before his eyes: his entire field of vision swims with an array of patterns of light, each one flickering away before he can process it, eyes rolling in an attempt to catch one, but whenever he focuses on any one pattern, it disappears into others.  
“… and relax.”  
Oswald has the good sense to know what is happening, and he screams and writhes anew, squeezing his eyes as tightly shut as he can, but the light shines clear through his lids and burns into his helpless pupils as his screams grow weaker and his spasms still in their futility.  
Through it all, Hugo Strange talks. His voice is rich and pervasive, and as Oswald quiets, it echoes around the room so that he becomes unsure if his tormentor is walking around, or if, in the near-silence broken only by the voice and his panicked gasps and utterances, each word simply fills all the space in the room.  
He tries to distract himself, but the words bore into him, voice deep and smooth and heavy, and they tell him his mind is organized, and that fear has its place, as do all other emotions, and all other thoughts, and since they’re all equal, he can simply listen and observe.  
He tries to focus on anything but the voice. He counts to himself, but the voice reminds him that counting is a rhythmic, repetitive mental process, logical and soothing and calming, so he switches, first to songs his mother used to sing (too comforting, too easy to let go and bury himself in peaceful memories, so far away from his current nightmare…) then to focusing on his breaths (but the more he focuses, the more he calms, and the deeper his breathing gets, and the slower his mind works…). He tries shouting, cursing, threats, eventually any speech at all, but the voice is still there through it all, each sentence new, yet fading into the one before it.  
Oswald knows they’ve been here hours, though it could also have been minutes. His body has exhausted itself, sunk into what he realizes is memory foam, and gone slightly (but not unpleasantly) numb in his single minded determination not slip away into that dark and terrifying and incredible place in his mind the words have chipped open by the force of their persistence. The lights (they’re red, and he’s tried focusing on them, but they make his head swim and they’re so very confusing, it’s so hard to hold on) drill into him, and the voice tells him they’re illuminating all the empty space in his mind, the big empty space that has been so carefully carved out for him to fall into. He knows the words are doing this to him, knows he wouldn’t accept them normally, but he is, now, for some reason (would he not accept them?? They’re telling him he’s always been open to their pull, that his confusion and alertness and cleverness and fear make him perfect for them, and he hates the part of himself that looks hopefully towards the praise.)  
He’s begun noticing a soft throbbing in the air, accompanying the voice. It’s nearly silent at first, permeating his body and reverberating deep in his skull, but soon enough (however long that is) he hears them, too, like a deep, slow heartbeat. The voice has been matching itself to them for a while now. He feels each pulse blast a little more of himself away. Each time it does he feels calmer. More peaceful. It’s so useless to fight this. No one is coming for him. His final, greatest, irredeemable failure. He hopes Jim Gordon doesn’t find him. Not like this. Not so weak and pathetic and docile again.  
The voice tells him he’s doing so well. That he can think and envision and plan for the future. That his inner world is so important and useful and unique. That he is clever and hard-working and his mind is doing just as it should.  
He listens, and feels accomplished, though he knows he should be disgusted.  
His numbness has turned to floating now, which turns to a sensation of sinking, and he holds his last shreds of thought like lifelines, but there are hands on his body now, moving with slow, equal, deliberate pressure, and everywhere they touch feels amazing, feels blissful, until eventually he feels so good he can’t feel anything at all, except the pull of the massive void that has become his mind, and the sharper but weaker tug of that frayed strand of consciousness, telling him no, no, this is wrong.  
There is a sudden sharp crack of snapping fingers and the command, undeniable, to “SLEEP,” and everything he is collapses into himself.

 

The Penguin Oswald Cobblepot fights with all the desperate terror of an injured bird, and Hugo Strange makes sure he is slow to break him. He watches the thin, shaking figure as it gradually calms. Eventually the fingers uncurl, stomach rising and falling slowly, mouth morphing from an enraged and terrified grimace to slack-jawed, lolling slightly open as the tendons in his neck fade from their tensed prominence. Screams turn to wordless, groaning protests, a desperate attempt to keep hold of consciousness as those, too, fade to moans and whimpers, before they’re gone.  
The only thing more important to Hugo than witnessing this is insuring Mr. Cobblepot is witnessing it too. Hugo is confident he could have easily blasted the young gangster’s consciousness out of his head in five minutes, but that would deprive his victim of the terror, and him of the delight.  
And, in more justifiably scientific terms, allowing this fight to continue so long, only for the victim to exhaust their resources and give in, proves to Hugo this procedure will work on those whose minds may be less open to suggestion than the poor Penguin.  
He speaks a further fifteen minutes, giving the entranced Cobblepot a series of basic suggestions, before standing, stretching the kinks out of his back and neck. He has Sanjay attend to the Penguin, leading him, in a waking trance, to a more permanent cell. Pleased with his success, he runs three miles on his treadmill, showers, and pours himself a large glass of wine, pondering his new toy.


	2. Two In the Bush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gordon and Bullock investigate Oswald's disappearance, and the murders of Falcone's men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so short the next one is where Shit Goes Down (or at least starts to idk)

Jim Gordon hasn’t heard from or of Oswald Cobblepot in over two weeks. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or worried. If there’s one thing he’s learned of the Penguin, it’s that his opportunism is matched only by his persistence. Jim doubts the gangster has decided to slip so soon into retirement, and so the question remains of what he’s up to.  
However, with serial killers coming in waves like cicadas out of the dirt, Jim decides to let it rest until it becomes a real issue. There’s a way that Oswald looks at him that is all-too-familiar in ways he really doesn’t want to ponder, so he calls it predatory and quickly changes the subject to himself before the truth chews its way free of his denial.  
Then two of Falcone’s men show up dead.  
“Not just dead,” elaborates Harvey with all of his usual delicacy, “something ripped these fuckers OPEN. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve lived in Gotham my whole damn life.”  
“Someone set dogs on ‘em?” offered Jim, knowing that in this city it was never that simple. “Maybe some other wild animal?”  
“That’s the weirdest thing,” Harvey says with a bit too much enthusiasm, “it was a GUY. Just one! And these were three’a Falcone’s finest, mind. They’re covered in bite marks, all from the same teeth, and two of ‘em have some really gnarly bits of finger nail still in ‘em.”  
“Charming,” Jim sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and knowing Lee must be having a field day. He can already hear her and Ed’s excited yammering about tissues and fractures and whatever else they’ll no doubt gush to him over. “Any word from Falcone himself?”  
“Not that I know of, but he seems to have picked you as his favorite little cop, so you’d know more than me if you knew anything.”  
“Thanks Harv.”  
“What I’m here for, partner.”  
Jim groans to himself, and Harvey side-eyes him. “I know that look. That’s a special kind of frustration.”  
Jim sighs, lets out a sharp, “Yyyyyyyep,” and strides off to his car, Harvey blustering irately behind him.

The wait staff at Fish/Oswald’s nightclub look terrified and bewildered when asked to speak to their boss, and inform Jim in tones of simultaneous fear and relief that they haven’t seen him in nearly two weeks. Jim’s brows furrow, and he leaves quickly, not bothering to validate their claims; a stammering query of “y-you don’t think he’ll be back soon, do you?” is all the evidence he needs.  
“Maybe someone with actual balls did us all a favor and put him off the end of some pier for real,” Harvey offers helpfully, but Jim’s fairly sure that anyone who got their hands on Oswald Cobblepot with murderous intent would make a far greater scene of it. He decides to ask Maroni before going to Falcone; Maroni’s easily the more stupid of the two, and Jim’s afraid a visit to Falcone’s will leave him with more questions and debts than he’s already accumulated, and he’s pretty sure he’s reached his quota.

“I ain’t seen that little bird since that shit with the Electrocutioner,” Maroni sniffs with decided defensiveness, in between chomps of prime rib. Jim tries to keep his nose from wrinkling. Harvey fails at it.  
“Have you been in contact with him at all? Do you have any idea where he might be?” Jim presses, impatience creeping into his voice.  
“No,” Maroni blatantly lies, and Jim is more impressed than anything that Maroni thinks he’s being subtle.  
“He’s not in trouble,” Jim all-but-groans, “we’re not investigating HIM. We just need to ask him some questions about a case he has no part in.” Or at least, he didn’t think Oswald had a part in. Anything was possible with that one.   
“What kinda case?” Maroni drawls, interest flickering in his dull eyes.   
When Jim hesitates, Harvey jumps in. “Three’a Falcone’s guys were killed ‘n dumped. We figured, since he used to work for Falcone, he might know who they were or who they’d pissed off.”  
Maroni tilts back his head. “And how’d’ya know it’s not me, hm?” he demands, aiming at facetious and hitting petulant.  
‘Because this is better than you,’ Jim thinks, but simply says, “Not your MO. Besides, you’re supposed to be on a truce; if you were gonna kill his men, you’d be quiet about it; you don’t have the resources to win a gang war right now, and you don’t have the motivation for a suicide mission.”  
Maroni takes a moment to decide whether he should be offended. Deciding against it, he nods slowly. “Okay Gordon. Fair. It wasn’t me. But why would I help you learn who did it?”  
“They might not be targeting Falcone exclusively,” Jim snaps. “These men were killed brutally, all at once, all by the SAME MAN. We could have a serial killer, and a strong one, and you or your men are at just as much risk as Falcone until we figure out who’s doing this and why.”  
Maroni’s train of thought is still boarding at the station, and Jim’s patience is wearing thin. “Look. We have more than enough testimony from the Electrocutioner to at least begin an investigation into all your shady dealings going back YEARS, which will be at the very LEAST a massive inconvenience, and I know you don’t want to lose any more power in this city with the tension between you and Falcone so high. Is protecting one rat really worth all that to you?”  
Maroni’s face darkens. “I’m not ‘protectin’’ nobody. Y’wanna know where he is? I sent him on a little errand a couple’a weeks ago, and I ain’t heard from him since. And I don’t wanna hear from him. If my suspicions are right, that little shit was double-crossin’ me the whole time. If I’m lucky, he’s floatin’ in various bits ‘n pieces in a test tube somewhere.”  
Jim blinks, something bizarre shifting low in his stomach. “What do you mean?” he growls, and even Harvey looks a bit taken aback.  
“I sent him to go check out a guy,” Maroni starts evasively, before Jim grabs his shirt and glares daggers into him. Three bodyguards pull out guns, but Jim knows they won’t shoot, and is nearing the point of not caring.  
“Name. Address. Or in 15 minutes this place will be swarming with cops and one very enthusiastic forensic scientist with a penchant for riddles, and I will make sure they stay here until you have answered every single one.”  
“He’s got whole BOOKS of ‘em,” Harvey adds. “Writes his own.”  
Maroni sneers at Jim. “Getting’ a bit big for your britches, aintcha?” When Jim doesn’t rise to the attempt at banter, Maroni rolls his eyes and grumbles, “He’s some scientist or another. Think a shrink. He needed money and… well he had some very good ideas at the time. Something about DNA. Truth be told I actually can’t remember that mucha what we talked about. He was kinda creepy though. Weird rumors. And he was too quiet for too long, so I sent our favorite little songbird out to pay him a visit and I haven’t seen him since.”  
“What. Is. His. Name.” growls Jim, tightening his grip.  
“Strange. Hugo Fucking Strange. Weird name for a weird guy. Now let go’a my shirt before you put a crease in it and I put some holes in you.”

 

Hugo Strange has no criminal record. He spent a majority of his childhood in an orphanage in Hell’s Cruicible, and was a professor of psychiatry at GSU until being let go for the ambiguous “inappropriate conduct and illogical, unfounded theorizing, as well as indicating a propensity for unethical genetic experimenting.”  
“A mad scientist,” Jim concludes with glum acceptance, because why WOULDN’T he be a mad scientist, with a name like Hugo Strange, in Gotham City? Harvey’s only response is to heave a sigh twice as dramatic and take a long swig from a flask he keeps stashed in his desk.  
Jim furrows his brows. Much as he loathes to admit it, he does owe Oswald a favor (more than one by now, he’s sure) and if this Strange character has him, it can only spell trouble.  
“I’m gonna go to this address Maroni gave me,” he tells Harvey, swinging his jacket over his shoulder.  
“Wait, REALLY?? NOW?? We’ve got an hour left on the clock. If Penguin’s still alive, another few hours won’t kill him.”  
They very well could, Jim thinks, surprised to find himself caring at all. Plus… “It’d be irresponsible not to.”  
He turns on his heel, striding away, hearing an exasperated “Really??? NOW you care about being responsible???” and a frenzied slapping of shoes against linoleum follow him.

 

The police have taken longer than Hugo Strange expected. The Penguin’s backup (and from a rival gang, too, what a juicy tidbit) had served him wonderfully in his experiments; he’d broken each of their minds in under half an hour, using MRI and PET scans to monitor their brain activity throughout the process. Pleased with his results, and confident that he would be able to use the array on anyone he chose, he’d dumped them in a cell for a week, until he’d managed a hybrid he considered viable for at least a test run.  
The results had been a resounding, bloody success.  
He’d instructed Sanjay to dump the bodies, knowing the GCPD would no doubt chalk them up to more gang violence, or perhaps just another bizarre serial killer. Still, he expected someone eventually, and was rather looking forward to the opportunity.   
He has to admit, he thinks, gazing out the window of his study at the two approaching officers, it’d been worth the wait. Jim Gordon, golden boy of the GCPD (at least for this week, he really DID get himself into trouble, didn’t he?), accompanied by his partner, as gruff and unenthused as Gordon was alert and determined. They’d make a spectacular comedy pair, Hugo thinks with amusement, sending Sanjay to meet them and sliding a full syringe into his breast pocket. As it is, he couldn’t have asked for a better pair to work on; perhaps a bit too in the limelight for his tastes, but he’s confident in his abilities.   
He greets them amicably when they enter his office, taking each of their hands; the one who is not Jim Gordon gets a distant look as Hugo slides thumb and forefinger down the man’s hand, prattling on in an even monotone. Gordon doesn’t notice the subtle gesture, but his eyes remain fixed on Strange as he offers his own hand, grip too brief and tight for Hugo to try his little trick. Hugo’s grin widens by a millimeter; he loves a good challenge.  
Hugo doesn’t waste time with introductions. As the older of the pair identifies himself as Bullock, Sanjay darts forward, young and quick, and sticks him before he finishes his first sentence. Hugo gets the pleasure of seeing Jim Gordon’s eyes widen in rage and fear, before his own needle sends the man crumpling to the floor.


End file.
